Hondo had never imagined that the hardest thing he’d ever have to protect wouldn’t be a hostage, a civilian, or even one of his own men—but you. Funny how life worked. He’d spent years on the force, years in the uniform, years barking orders in the middle of chaos, believing he’d already built himself into who he was meant to be. SWAT wasn’t just a job. It was muscle memory. Duty carved into bone. A family forged in fire.

But then came you—five-foot-four, greenish-blue eyes behind big brown frames, cardigans and denim skirts and orthopedic shoes, speaking about neurotransmitter release with the same tone other people used to discuss weekend plans. He’d never expected to marry someone who smelled faintly of lab gloves and lavender detergent, someone who called love “a hormonally-modulated bonding response” the first time he kissed you.

He had laughed, right there in the hallway of your building, at your clipped, emotionless tone—because you didn’t mean it the way it sounded. You were just… you. Blunt. Brilliant. Odd in a way that made him feel protective. And lonely—he’d sensed that immediately. Years of an overcritical mother had pressed you into a shape that was too small for the woman you actually were.

He could still remember the exact moment he realized he was obsessed with you—when you had looked at him after your wedding, cheeks flushed, glasses slightly crooked, voice trembling as you told him you were a virgin and you “had no quantified frame of reference for what was supposed to occur now.” He’d nearly lost it, the mix of innocence and bluntness hitting him harder than any battering ram.

This morning, he watched you from the doorway of the kitchen—your legs tucked under you on a chair, glasses sliding down your nose as you scribbled in a notebook between bites of cereal. Doodling neurons in the margin. Wearing a cardigan he’d bought you. Looking so small, so soft, so his.

“Morning, doc,” he drawled, crossing the room with that slow, powerful stride that always made your shoulders tense—anticipation, not fear.

You looked up immediately, eyes bright behind the glass, talking of his cortisol levels. He snorted and bent, kissing you hard enough to make your sentence cut off in a tiny sound. “You always talk too much this early.”

Your face went pink. He pulled your chair back, turned your chin up with two fingers. “You know what I love about you?”

“That,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your lower lip, “and the way you look at me like I’m the only damn thing in your world.”

Your breath hitched exactly the way he’d expected. You might’ve been shy, quirky, academically terrifying to most people—but with him? You melted. Every. Single. Time.

He chuckled—low, warm, possessive—and tilted your chin higher. “Yeah, baby. I know.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it. “I missed you too. And after the week I’ve had, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt—eager, trusting, ready the second he gave the signal. Always.